And he tells a horrific story--as if it were true--about an unfortunate wicked lady, who being invited to a wedding could not get her ruff stiffened and plaited as she wanted; so fell to swearing and tearing, and vowed “that the Devil might have her whenever she wore _neckerchers_ again.” And the Evil One took her at her word, appearing in the guise of a presentable young man who arranged her ruffs “--to her so great contentation and liking, that she became enamored with him. The young man kissed her, in the doing whereof he writhed her neck in sunder, so she died miserably; her body being straightwaies changed into blue and black colors, most ugglesome to behold, and her face most deformed and fearful to look upon. This being known in the city great preparation was made for her burial, and a rich coffin was provided, and her fearful body was laid therein. Four men assay’d to lift up the corps, but could not move it. Whereat the standers-by--marvelling causing the coffin to be opened to see the cause thereof, found the body to be taken away, and a blacke catte, very leane and deformed, sitting in the coffin, setting of great ruffes, and frizzling of haire, to the great feare and wonder of all the beholders.” We do not preach in just that way against fashionable dressing in our time. A book on the _Arte of English Poesie_ belongs to those days--supposed to be the work of George Puttenham[121]--written for the “recreation and service” of the Queen; it has much good counsel in it--specially in its latter part; and the author says he wrote it to “help the gentlewomen of the Court to write good Poetry.” As an exampler, under his discussion of “Ornament,” he cites what he graciously calls a “sweet and sententious ditty” from the Queen’s own hand. The reader will be curious perhaps to see some portion of this:-- “The doubt of future foes, exiles my present joy, And wit me warnes to shun such snares as threaten mine annoy, For falsehood now doth flow, and subject faith doth ebbe, Which would not be, if reason rul’d, or wisdome wev’d the webbe.” This much will serve for our republican delectation; but it is not the only instance in which we find mention of her Majesty’s dalliance with verse: In an old book called the _Garden of the Muses_, of the date of 1600, the author says the flowers are gathered out of many excellent speeches spoken to her Majesty at triumphs, masques, and shows, as also out of divers choice ditties sung to her; and “some especially proceeding from her own most sacred selfe.” No one of them, however, would have ranked her with any of the poets of whom we have made particular mention; but for fine, clear, nervous, masculine English, to put into a letter, or into a despatch, or into a closet scolding, I suspect she would have held rank with any of them.